


Waves

by GendryVonTeese



Series: Hold Me Down [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Groping, Heavy Petting, Horny Teenagers, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I can't think of any other tags it's 5 am, Martinski, Sexual Content, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stydia, Sultry Stiles, Unresolved Sexual Tension, an almost there Praise Kink sort of but not yet, yeah he's back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23697994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GendryVonTeese/pseuds/GendryVonTeese
Summary: Tension hits like an ocean current between Stiles and Lydia on a rainy Saturday morning.
Relationships: Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Hold Me Down [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/324527
Comments: 14
Kudos: 100





	Waves

**Author's Note:**

> FoUr FiCs chillin in a hot tub FoUr YeArS aPart causE I'm NoT okay~  
> HEY THERE, so sorry for the longest pause in the middle of fandom history. I'm a mess and a half. Quarantine has brought me back to my roots. I've nothing else to do but fall back in love with writing fan fiction instead of just reading it. And who could have predicted that, really? I know, there's no trust anymore because I ran off with our kids and I never let you get custody. But listen - let's move past it, ok? Because I love you and I want to make it work.
> 
> (This is a continued UPDATE of a series I started back when Teen Wolf was still on the air and each fic in said series is based off of a sexy!song. Kinda. It's all Stydia and there is no beta in sight for miles. This one was inspired by Normani & 6lack "Waves" and I suggest listening to it, as it was the soundtrack for this two part fic.)

Lydia Martin is a fucking angel, okay?

She’s accomplished too much her in young academic life already to be doubtful and insecure about herself. Her smarts and her looks are one in the same – a manifestation of her femininity, intelligence, and her own sexual prowess. Something most teens in high school could only dream of possessing. She was self-assessing, selfish when necessary, naturally dominant, and to top it off she always did everything her superiors asked of her, including her parents.

She aims to please. She likes rewards. She likes seeing the trophies, physical and metaphorical, for the hurdles she jumps through. She is a very capable girl and a GOOD girl at that.

A good girl with… bad intentions.

So, why, pray tell – could Lydia be driving to Stiles Stilinski’s house at 10am on a Saturday morning and _not_ feel completely in control of the situation? How the hell did doubt creep up behind her ribcage?

The sky was gloomy from the start, no sun and all gloom. The morning dew turned crisp. And even now as the drops of rain begin to pitter patter against her car, it almost annoys her. The gentle lull just serves as background noise for her nerves instead of calming her.

It took her an hour to decide what to wear, how to style her hair, what kind of makeup she wanted to put on her face. All of it. Down to the nits and grits and oh my god, did she forget deodorant?

Lydia grips the steering wheel and forces herself to get it together. She’s cute! She knows this! She’s cute as hell!

A super soft lavender crop top with a white high waisted pleated skirt was a good fucking outfit choice. Her legs were damn smooth, and lotioned. Her orange cream blush and blackest black mascara were the last two perfect touches for their brunch-turned-rendezvous… it just took some tinted moisturizer and a matte blotted lip to get there, but this girl was on fire. That orgasm last night did more than just put her soundly to sleep. It gave her a _glow_. Thank God she’d fallen asleep with two braids in her hair last night, so her hair was perfectly messy and wavy and wouldn’t suffer from curling humidity. This rain was NOT going to screw her today. Frizzy hair is where Lydia Martin draws the line.

So what is there to be insecure about? She smells like Mugler’s ‘MUSE’ for crying out loud. She smells like the personification of a thigh high stiletto boot! It sets the mood, for one. She needs a little motivation, okay? Stiles makes her head spin. She can’t forget who she is and why she feels the way she feels, because if she gives into every moment she’s going to faint before anything happens. The truth is, the moment Lydia spritzed herself with the perfume, she could smell the actual phone sex they’d had. Her body wasn’t just hungry for food.

Lydia drives around, idly and calmly, praying for her anxiety to take a hike so she can take in the wet landscape without hearing the echo of Stiles moaning her name like a prayer in her head. With barely any cars on the back road this morning, everything feels quiet. Serene. Undisturbed. Eventually the rain starts to pick up a little bit, and rightly so; the calm before the storm. Much like how Lydia feels upon turning into Stiles’ neighborhood at this very moment, knowing that in less than a minute she’s going to be there. To have brunch. To cover his hickeys before his dad wakes up. To watch Kill Bill: Volume Two.

To… do things.

Once she’s parked behind his jeep, she uses her oversized tote bag to cover herself as she runs to Stiles Stilinski’s front door. Seeing Sheriff Stilinski’s police cruiser on the street reminds her of the delicacy of the situation.

The awning above her gives Lydia reprieve as she waits for Stiles to get to the door, which, okay – rude. He’s actually not answering right on the first ring? Who is he trying to fool here? She could roll her eyes at the gall. As if they both haven’t been anticipating this for the last twelve hours. Not once has Stiles _not_ thrown his body face first towards the front door whenever Lydia’s come over in the past. And that was when homework was the only activity planned.

 _Little shit,_ Lydia thinks. Stiles is going to be a brat today.

Except that unlike yesterday, today, in this very moment, Lydia’s prepared for him. Prepared for the looks, the innuendos, the playfulness that comes right before the sinning, the arrogance of his smirk, the play on tension. And she almost welcomes the smugness. For once in her life Stiles is keeping her waiting.

And it turns her on.

The front door opens and Stiles’ eyes land on her and Jesus GOD- the hickeys on his neck and his smile that blooms on his face. No teeth, no head tilt, just a tall- standing broad shouldered, devilishly slow, all-knowing, upturn of his lips. A smile just for him and his pleasure upon seeing her. A smile that reminds Lydia why she came so hard last night. His eyes are leveled and non- blinking.

“Good morning,” he says airily, like a fucking tease.

His chests rises up and down with calm confidence. His breaths are quiet, but heavy.

“Good morning, Stiles,” Lydia says back. She stares at him as he breathes in and out through his nose, his mouth closed, and those fucking lips smirking ever so slightly. The rise and fall of his chest makes Lydia stare right at it, resisting the urge to run her hands up under his top. Stiles takes her in as she daydreams. Time feels like it’s standing still. Lydia stares at his hickeys, seeing the effect of a day’s worth of healing. His Adam’s apple is bare right in front of her and he doesn’t even swallow nervously. Her gaze naturally travels down his neck to his collar bones, and then his strong arms in those worn and tattered short sleeves.

Stiles is in a soft looking and nearly see-through pajama shirt with sky blue long johns that are (thankfully) not skin tight. They’re the ones with drawstrings and his are noticeably uneven. Her gaze lingers for a nano-second too long because she can see his hip bones suddenly, when he raises his arm up to rest against the door like the cocky piece of shit he is. Neither one of them is focused on the chilly morning air rushing between them or the rain that’s picking up speed behind Lydia.

When Lydia drinks in her fill of his midriff, her eyes catch Stiles’ face and he is looking right at her legs. Stiles, with every blink, raises his gaze higher and higher up her body. It feels like a slow drawn out staring session between the two of them but the exchange is not even a minute long.

“Thanks for dressing up,” she mocks.

He leans in further towards her. “You look good,” he says casually, tilting his head.

 _Praise kink_ , she reminds herself, hearing a ding in her head like a point bell. Something to bring up later.

“I always look good.”

And then, that’s when Stiles bites his bottom lip so gently it’s like he’s a freshman all over again, staring at her lips. Appraising her just by giving her this hot, burning attention. “Yes, you do.”

He unknowingly leans his head impossibly forward. It’s such an abrupt action that Lydia blinks in surprise, fearing that he’ll lean in and kiss her right then in there.

“Do you usually greet people in a crop top?”

He laughs out of his trance, making way in the doorway to let her inside. “It’s not that short.”

She brushes past him, feeling the air from outside dissipating once she’s inside. The skin on skin contact reminds them both why Lydia’s here today. The looming ‘work now, play later’ rings above their heads as they look in each other’s eyes. The warmth of being inside makes her feel welcomed, and gets her excited. The prospect of having him all to herself jolts her back to her usual confident self.

“You have hickeys that need covering up,” Lydia states, hoisting up her purse. “I’ve got the stuff.”

“Oh, yes,” he says strongly. “The stuff.”

They make their way up the stairs, softly, as the quietness of the morning creeps in and makes every creak feel too loud the small space of the hallway. His dad is sound asleep, snoring loudly, recuperating from last night’s shift. Knowing what Stiles told her about his dad, there’s no reason to be quiet unless a gun shot goes off – he sleeps through anything. But somehow, keeping quiet makes it all the more provocative.

Stiles bathroom is down the hall, left of his bedroom. Lydia walks behind Stiles, every step light and heavy at the same time. Does she stare at the muscles in his back as he walks? Absolutely. But the tension from earlier has bled out a bit, because there’s an actual task at hand. And she’s grateful that they’re going to do what she came here to do, because Lydia wouldn’t have trusted herself had Stiles truly leaned in to kiss her at the front entrance.

To put things bluntly, it would’ve gone to shit. She can compartmentalize, no problem, but hormones notwithstanding, the ache she feels for him is too big for him to just start something without her not finishing it. It scares her, but this is the reality.

Once Stiles is sat up on the counter and Lydia’s standing between his legs, color correcting concealers in hand, the soft banter between them is the only thing stopping her from grabbing him by the throat. Because, lest we forget, Lydia is still a _lady_.

“Be gentle, Mommy.”

Lydia rolls her eyes, color correcting the blue bruising underneath his skin with red concealer and dabbing the hollow of his throat. Going back and forth between colors, she narrates what she’s doing while she does it, so Stiles has a chance of replicating it for the next couple days. Unsurprisingly, he pays attention. Comments. Asks questions that are relevant.

“And if the hickeys start to yellow?”

“You can use the pot concealer,” she holds it up for him to see, “because it’s purple. And it’s really dense. But it’s white based so if you’re bruise isn’t _all_ yellow, it’ll show if you try to cover it up.”

She’s not surprised, per se, but impressed that he’s keeping it together now that her hand is actually poking, prodding, even gripping his neck. On Lydia’s end, the filthy things he said to her last night are replaying on a loop now that he’s within reach. It’s starting to annoy her because she should be able to complete one simple task without losing her composure.

“So what’s the Dermacol for?” He turns the tube around in his hands, and Lydia presses a little too firmly on the deep purple flower of a bruise at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Her greatest work yet, if you ask her.

Stiles sucks in a breath, taken aback by her touch. She relishes in his reaction for only a moment before Stiles grabs her wrist with his other hand. “Don’t be mean,” he flirts. He narrows his eyes with a sliver of sexy. How does he do that?

“You save that for last.” She plucks the makeup out of his loosely gripped hands and puts the tube down on the counter. “I’m going to show you how to use that in a second, but I have to finish this first. Dermacol is heavy duty, full coverage makeup. You’ll look like clown and get it all over your clothes if you don’t use it right.”

Lydia zones in and out of being in the present moment, in the bathroom with Stiles, and the phone sex last night – where he begged and moaned and promised to suck on her clit over the phone. Because, HELLO, how can she not? It’s putting Lydia in a low key fever state, making her zone out while he speaks. It’s stupid, so stupid, how Stiles feels like he’s everywhere, all over her. In her mind and body and vision and just… she doesn’t know what she’s done in a past life to deserve this kind of fever. But she sure as hell isn’t going to let it show.

“I don’t plan on staying in my pajamas, just so you know.”

“Oh?” He looks so cuddly, she doesn’t want him to change.

“I figured it might get messy trying to cover my neck so I opted for comfort.”

She blinks up at him, smirking. “That’s fair. I mean,” she shrugs, “it’s my fault you have them.”

He turns his head, bites back a smile, and says wistfully, “Receiving them was a real hardship…”

“Lean your head back,” she chastises.

“A lot of things are your fault, Lydia, as I’m finding out,” he says, facing the ceiling. “It’s you’re fault I slept like a baby last night, too. I slept very, very well. My bed sheets thank you.”

Stiles’ neck is almost completely color corrected and her breathing is too heavy for her liking.

“Just the bed sheets, huh? That’s disappointing.”

“The bed sheets represent the community, don’t undermine their importance.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m doing what’s best for the community.”

“The economy is thriving and on the rise, I’ll tell you that.”

She tries not to laugh as she blends everything thoroughly for the second time. Damn, she’s good at this.

“Damn, you’re good at this.” He takes a glance in the mirror, twisting his neck around to see that she’s neutralized the bruising of each hickey. Even with just the concealer, it’s nearly undetectable. Lydia makes a sound that gets him to turn back around so she can finish, and she grabs the Dermacol.

“This stuff could cover a tattoo. Use it sparingly and then set it with a translucent powder so it doesn’t transfer on your clothes. It’ll give you 24 hour coverage as long as you don’t sweat or rub it off.”

She deftly dabs it into his skin lightly with the damp sponge, applying it in small repetitive stamps over the colored concealer. She then checks the rest of his neck for spots she could have missed, giving him a good once over. Stiles lets himself be man handled for a second, gifting Lydia with staring without consequence, as she turns his neck around in a purposeful, barely there grasp. When she looks back up to his face he looks sleepy again, his eyes almost closing. But she knows Stiles can’t be sleepy because he’s gripping the edge of the counter _very_ tightly. The vascular veins on his forearms are rising prominently through his skin.

The juxtaposition is jarring. Which side of Stiles will come out first?

Her nimble fingers are itching to touch, but now isn’t the right time. She washes her hands and lines up the products next to the sink and he hops off the counter, thanking her for such a thorough job.

“That was a lot of steps.”

“You learned a lot today,” she comments.

“I did. Thank you. Really, I mean it…” He shakes his head at the thought. “Thank you so much, Lyds. You saved me and my dad from the trauma because, I’m not kidding,” he squeezes her arm for emphasis and leaves it there, “I wouldn’t know the first thing to say to him. I’m sure he’d be happy to know, relieved even, that his son can at least socialize long enough to kiss a pretty girl,” he squeezes her arm again. “But side swiping him with three hickeys on my neck is… not a gradual adjustment.”

He almost blushes with the innocence of that truth, and Lydia can’t help but rest her palm against his cheek. Stiles did get slut shamed by Greenberg, after all.

“You’re welcome. I had to, I mean, I owe you. You _did_ blindside the entire faculty and student body, Stiles, and that takes a lot of deviant energy,” she teases. This time he really does blush.

“Shit, I still can’t believe I did that.” He pauses, rubs his face with his hands, and blinks several times, dragging down the skin of his cheeks. “Seesh, I had _no shame_ about that, did I?”

“Nope.”

“I don’t know how a single teacher passed by me without giving me detention for public indecency. I mean, even Danny gave me attention. Danny doesn’t give me attention, ever. I have to _ask him_ for it. And that’s a big fuckin’ deal, like… huge.” His eyes glass over like he’s replaying it all in his head, and it looks like the beginning of a nervous freak out.

Lydia’s nice enough to pop that bubble for him with the spoken promise of, “Next time I’ll start with just one hickey, instead of three, that way you have less of a chance of getting any attention at all. Look at the plus side – you’ve set a new standard. You already got away with it once, Stiles, so they can’t punish you for a smaller offense, now, can they?”

“That’s a bold promise,” he murmurs, not specifying which one.

“I can always work my way back up to three, so don’t push it. And as for your dad, he won’t have to see a thing. Not with that flawless paint job I just gave you. Plus, you’ve got the tools to cover them up as you see fit. Besides, hickeys don’t always have to be on your neck.”

His eyes get dangerous, his demeanor snapping from boy to man in a second. “That’s a definite possibility.”

“So,” Lydia smirks, ghosting her fingertips slowly down his Adam’s apple. “What’s on the menu?”

Stiles doesn’t take his eyes off her, tilting his head slowly towards his shoulder like it’s a warning. He exhales loudly with his mouth shut, a deep hum, as if to say ‘you know what’s on the menu because I’m looking at it.’ His demeanor is so dangerously serious, his body wound together so tightly, that Lydia could laugh out loud. She’s sick, so sick in the head. She’s twisted. She _enjoys_ this. Bringing him to the brink of… whatever this is, with tame words but not so tame intentions. It was like dangling a bone in front of a dog.

Lydia takes a dark look at his arms again. The poetry that Lydia could write about his arms and his hands and his fingers could rival Richard Siken. She wonders perversely if Stiles jerked off this morning.

“Belgian waffle eggs benedict with maple hollandaise, arugula salad with radishes and pickled onions, and a mustard poppy seed chilled tomato dip, with bagel chips on the side,” Stiles answers, not missing a beat.

You can always count on Stiles to stick to an agenda.

***

Lydia was thankful that John Stilinski could sleep through anything, because their laughter could be heard throughout the house. They had been cooking for a while now, their stomachs grumbling loudly as they prepped. The table was set, the salad just needed dressing, and the faux mimosas, which consisted of club soda and orange juice, were in coup glasses (she went digging deep in the cabinets for those). The plates were stacked right next to the stove for Stiles to plate their meal.

Stiles was in charge of pretty much everything. Cutting radishes, pureeing tomatoes, mixing the ingredients, poaching the eggs, and getting the hollandaise sauce just right. All Lydia had to do now was make a good set of Belgian waffles without zoning out and watching Stiles cook, which was embarrassingly hypnotic. She didn’t put enough mix in the first two sets, and ended up burning them. Stiles nearly burned _himself_ helping Lydia out with the waffle iron but he somehow managed to salvage at least one of the wonkier ones. Stiles declared it a taste test, and they ripped into it dry, tearing the pieces while it was still hot. You could make fun of her for it, but eating her mistake with Stiles felt like true romance.

He had smiled as he chewed, all the while staring at Lydia right as the sun shined in through the kitchen window. Once it stopped raining, it turned into some real rom-com shit.

The routine of navigating around each other in the kitchen was so easy, so domestic, that they had lost track of time. It was now almost noon, and even though they had been in the kitchen for almost an hour, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Cooking the food really wasn’t what took the longest, anyway - getting the ingredients out of the fridge turned out to take longer than necessary, with Stiles pressed up against her back, listing everything that she needed to grab. He followed her to the pantry, the cabinet underneath the water glasses, the dining room, everywhere. She’d follow his voice, taken the direction, and did as he said. It was playful, fun, and hot all in one.

Lydia isn’t surprised that Stiles can cook. With his appetite, it’s impossible for his creativity to not come out in the kitchen. Also, breakfast is easy. His mind runs a mile a minute. He may battle against mythical creatures online for hours at a time, but his attentiveness is unparalleled. When he concentrates, he’s so alert of everything else around him, he nearly obsesses over the perfection of it. It’s one of the things Lydia enjoys discovering about Stiles. She’s selective of the things she lets herself get lost in, but Stiles gets lost in everything. She’ll never admit it, but learning each layer feels like a special privilege. She was pompous enough to think she _knew_ Stiles, at least on the surface, but his surface ran ocean deep… deeper than what Lydia may be ready to handle.

But she swallows that fear and hope down with her mimosa as soon as they sit down at the table. They smile at each other like idiots as they eat. The sun shines through the kitchen, and the view is so beautiful from where she’s sitting. Stiles’ side dimple comes out when he swallows his food and smiles, catching her in the act. He squints in that cute adorable Stilinski way and his left eye does that charming crinkly thing. Lydia reminds herself of the hickeys under all that makeup, and when she looks at his neck, she misses them. She misses seeing the artwork her mouth left on him. He catches her staring but ignores it, cutting into the poached egg like a performance art piece. A bright orange burst in slow motion.

Lydia brings her attention back to her grumbling stomach, scolding herself for her impatience and obvious desperation.

_This is sickening,_ she tells herself.

She needs to really get a hold of herself. Stiles is keeping it together, barely, but at least he’s reeling it in with a tight bow. Lydia’s either on the brink of snapping like a cheap button on an acrylic knit cardigan or jumping into the replay of their phone sex in the abyss of her mind. Neither one is an actual solution. In fact, they’re both waves of desperation. And she _cannot ride_ these waves. It’s barely noon! There are bagel chips on the table! His dad is snoring upstairs!

Eventually tension does dissolve long enough to enjoy their meal. And it is a very good one. Lydia’s floored at how much time and effort was truly put into this brunch. She helped, sure, but she’s tickled by someone really making plans with her and following through with absolute care. The Belgian waffles are perfectly fluffed (she’d gotten the hand of it), the tomato dip is down right mouthwatering, and the hollandaise sauce carries so much flavor that the broken yolk of each egg only adds to the bold deliciousness. Lydia moans between bites, genuinely basking in it all, as they continue talking about school, Scott, AP Chem, weekend plans, and the occasional making fun of Derek.

It was never hard for her to start a conversation with Stiles. Keeping him on topic, however, was once a difficult task (he went through a phase of rambling about male circumcision for three months last year) but he’s been better about that as of late. It’s effortless to talk to him now. She nods and hums and answers when it’s necessary, but for the most part she listens to Stiles as they eat. His animated way of telling a story goes far and she’s nearly finished her breakfast when he sighs, leans back, and pats his tummy in satisfaction. His plate is empty and the bagel chips are no more.

Lydia would like at least _some_ credit for bringing Stiles out of his shell. Especially seeing him like this – relaxed and confident and sexy and aware of the girl sitting in front of him. Completely at ease with an underlying layer of anxiousness… with so much left to explore.

Lydia takes her last bite when he sits up in his chair erratically.

“I just realized I can’t think of anything else to talk about and now there’s an awkward silence.” He raises a fist to his mouth and his knee starts to jump under the table.

“Why’s it awkward?”

“I didn’t want our first date to have any weird boring moments,” he admits, like a kid who doesn’t want to sound like he’s whining.

Lydia freezes in surprise before she can catch herself. “This is a date?”

Stiles goes red, dropping both arms on the table. “Come on, Lydia…” he huffs, not making eye contact.

“Oh.”

“OH, god…”

“No, no! I just didn’t know- I, um, I just really wanted to see you,” she says quickly, trying to recover. I an effort to knock the look of rejection off his face, she grabs his hand with both of hers. He looks delighted at the contact. Now it’s Lydia’s turn to go red. How tragic and funny that her desire to see Stiles clouded the very idea of what her coming over might mean to him? Why didn’t she see the signs that this was a possible date?

“I guess I should’ve asked-”

“I’m really glad that this is a date.” She squeezes his hand and he squeezes back.

“Yeah?” Fuck, the adorably hopeful expression on his face is so hot.

Lydia isn’t going to roll her eyes and say ‘whatever’ to her crush on him when he’s put so much trust in her. This moment is too important to not take seriously.

“Yeah.” She gives him a small smile before playfully rolling her eyes. “Stiles, I assumed you put a lot of effort into this because that’s how you are and whenever we hang out you always make me feel catered to – and I really like that about you – so if you say it’s a date, then it’s a date, automatically, boom, yes, if you say so then you say so and that’s that. It’s a date. I agree.”

He his demeanor visibly relaxes. He rubs the back of her hand tenderly. “Okay,” he blinks. “Thanks. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You spoil me and I love it. Keep it up,” Lydia quips, raising her chin up.

“We’ve got the whole day.” Her hand is tingling where he’s touching it.

“I hope you’ve planned your time with me wisely, Stilinski, because this is going to be a very long first date.”

Stiles rises to the bait with a suggestive eyebrow. “If you think I haven’t thought about you coming to my house, and spending the whole day with me, over and over again in my head a thousand times, you’re sorely mistaken. And that’s the abridged family friendly version.”

Stiles always had a thing for her, yes. She knew it. She didn’t always appreciate it, but she understood it. Why _wouldn’t_ she be attractive to him? Especially knowing him now. It’s so obvious to her now WHY it is he finds her so appealing. Maybe those reasons changed and evolved over the years, but that’s the way it should be. Because people grow.

Lydia has _some_ idea of which things about her make Stiles stare back with heart eyes, but she’d rather hear it come out of his mouth instead. Her patience for that won’t be wearing thin any time soon, anyways. She’s got time.

“What’s the unabridged uncensored version?”

Stiles purses his lips together and brings her hands up to his mouth without blinking. “Why tell you when I can just do it?” He runs his lips over all her knuckles one by one.

Lydia’s whole body flushes traitorously. “It’s not gentlemanly to keep your date in the dark.”

“But we have fun in the dark,” he remarks, keeping his face deceptively neutral. As if Lydia needs reminding of how this whole thing started, the God damned brat.

“It’s not dark yet,” she indicates to him with a look out the kitchen window.

“How about this,” he reasons, standing up to start clearing the table, “If our first date doesn’t go like I expect it to by the end of the night, I’ll tell you every little detail.”

“How many versions of this story are there?”

“The number is embarrassing. Gonna make good use of a vocab word and say it’s indicative of many different alternate endings and leave it at that.”

Does she want Stiles admitting to what could have happened, instead of making sure it definitely happens? It sounds like both a threat and a promise. Either way, she’s too eager to care. Having him whisper his sweet desires in her ear doesn’t sound like a punishment. Whichever way this ends, it’s a win/win in her book.

Lydia thinks carefully before looking at him. She masks her face with an unbothered expression and gluttonously eyes the skin above his waistline, traveling up his chest, his jawline, those strong arms, his face. The mimosas were virgin but she’s already tipsy. “Deal.”

He walks towards the sink- no, _saunters_ over to the sink. His eyes linger at the ground behind him, the power behind them crawling across the tile and seeping into her skin. The dimple of his smirk disappears when he twists his head forward again to turn on the tap.

Cleaning the kitchen and washing the dishes doesn’t take long. Stiles’ got a pot of coffee brewing for his dad and Lydia’s almost done drying the plates. Anticipation for what’s in store next builds and builds as Stiles really takes his time putting things away. His fingers are deft in taking each fork, knife, and plate out of her hands to put them in their respective places. The words ‘slow’ and ‘purposeful’ come to mind with every heated touch of a finger tip, like a dirty version of a Mad Libs.

Stiles saves a plate of food for his father when he wakes, as it’s getting close to that time, and pours them both a mug of hot coffee.

His neck still looks impeccable and every hour that passes gives Lydia permission to gloat.

“I think we should have a movie marathon.”

He grabs his coffee (mixed with almond milk and oat milk and brown sugar in a perfect ratio) and doesn’t look behind him when he walks into the living room. Watching movies out in the open space of his living room instead of his bedroom feels like a tactic. But she doesn’t say anything.

“I was thinking murder mysteries, but I don’t want to wake up my dad with proverbial gun shots. Maybe romantic dramedies?”

His dad’s shift starts at 3pm and a glance at the clock says that it’s already 1:30pm. She calculates the time it would take to defile him in his bedroom and concludes that it’s more than enough time… BUT. Stiles is taking the reins on this date; it’s his turn to lead. And they have _the whole day_.

“You want to sit and spread your attention span across multiple movies? Is that possible for you?”

He has his back to Lydia when he mumbles under his breath, “Sit and spread you…”

Lydia barley catches it and when she does it’s too late. “What was that?”

He diverts with an obnoxiously loud sigh, resting his mug on the coffee table. He turns to face her and runs his hands through is hair. “I should change into something more date appropriate.” The soft, tattered pajama shirt rises much higher up his midriff this time. His arms go into a languid stretch that he gives into without control. It has him yawning and mewling like an overfed cat.

“You don’t have to.” Did she think that or say that out loud?

She can’t resist staring at the defined muscles of his stomach, at his lower tummy, the hair under his belly button, _thinking_ of the ways she could run her fingers through it without getting too close to skin…

“What was that?” he mimics.

Lydia’s eyes are glued to the open picture of his happy trail disappearing into his fake-conservative-but-not-see-through long johns. Christ in skinny jeans, a strong stomach has never been this appealing. The standard slight bulge in his pants makes her want to find out if he’s wearing underwear or not. His pants aren’t thin enough.

_I want to lick the tip like candy._

She knocks herself out of her reverie with a long blink and a neck stretch. She just ate, but she’s salivating.

“Why get dressed when you can stay comfortable? We’re just watching movies, right?”

He turns towards the stairs before she can catch the arrogant smirk on his face.

“I’ll change my shirt and bring down a blanket,” he compromises. Then he’s gone, allowing her to watch his butt as he ascends the stairs.

Lydia sips her coffee in an attempt to swallow down her salivating hormones.

She gingerly walks to the couch and picks her seat carefully. She sinks into the heathered grey cushions far enough from the end so there’s enough room for Stiles. She closes her eyes and basks in the sunlight coming in through the blinds. This house is truly the personification of cozy, and she’s so happy she’s here.

Her eyes land on Stiles’ discarded converse by the door, only anticipating his return to her even more.

All things considered, she was lucky to be here right now, basking in the warmth of this couch. Last year, this was not a possibility for her. She’s thankful for the friendship that gave her a chance at understanding him, a chance at peering through the window into the snarky boy himself.

She saw what Stiles had to offer as a friend and how he looked when he got excited, and how he’d comfort her when she felt the weight of the world, and what he liked to snack on, and what his favorite pair of shoes were, and the way his jawline clicks when he gauges her reaction to things and – and, and all those God damn tight t-shirts he wore really messed her up!

Before Stiles thumps down the stairs, she hears voices above her. Suddenly, she feels like she’s in trouble, but it goes away as quickly and as it comes. They aren’t _doing_ anything.

Stiles calls something out to his dad and then slips goofily down the last step.

“He didn’t notice a thing,” He looks flustered as he holds up the red and white fleece blanket. If Stiles didn’t have makeup on she’d be able to see his neck flush.

“Of course he didn’t.”

“I was nervous for a second there.” He changed into a moderately fitting white Henley with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The neckline is wide enough that it doesn’t rest on the makeup at all, the top three buttons open and flopped.

“He woke up fast.”

“REM sleep cycle,” he jokes nervously.

Lydia hums and takes a sip of her coffee. He tosses the blanket at her head.

“Hey!”

He grabs his mug and takes his seat next to Lydia, right up against on the arm rest, exactly where he likes it. He sits on top of his leg, bumping into Lydia’s space good naturedly. She pulls the plaid blanket loosely over them, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“So, what are we thinking: Guy Ritchie blockbuster or a Bong Joon Ho indie?” He wriggles the remote.

Seeing his face this close up makes her heart beat fast.

“Let’s start with a Luca Guadagnino dramedy.”

He tosses his head from side to side contemplatively. “Amazing scenery, heavily ambiguous characters…”

“Not to mention the on-point wardrobe.”

“Armie Hammer knew was he was doing to us with those shorts.”

“No one does relationship drama and dripping sexual tension like the Italians.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he purrs, looking right at her lips. The TV’s not even on.

She gets a whiff of a soapy sweet cream smell, like the lingering scent of a recently used bar of soap. She leans in to get a good sniff. But the moment her head makes the slightest incline to move, Stiles pushes his forehead down against hers. _Woah._

“Don’t start something, if you’re not gonna finish it,” he whispers with a gravel to his voice. Their noses touch each time their necks rock back and forth. In seconds, their eyes droop closed.

And that’s the moment John Stilinski trudges down the steps in full uniform.

The TV is miraculously on and playing channel five news.

“Good afternoon, Lydia. Happy to see you here on a weekend.” He smiles at them both with a knowing look in his eyes. “Hope my son’s cooking skills were up to par.”

Lydia nearly contacts the spirits of the undead to will herself into a calm and collected appearance. “Always a pleasure to see you, sir. Stiles made the best brunch,” she gushes. “You definitely taught him how to poach an egg just right. I had no idea you even had one of those huge waffle irons! It was really fun. We made sure to clean everything up, too. There’s salad in the fridge and a big Belgian waffle on a plate for you.” She throws him a glittering smile.

His face creases in an adorable dad-approved smile. “Well, I can’t say no to that.”

Stiles doesn’t move, but takes his leg out from under him to rest it up against the coffee table. A sad attempt at casual, but Lydia holds back the eye roll.

Stiles’ dad tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “Stiles,” he says incriminatingly.

“There’s a pot brewed for you,” he croaks, eyes forward and glued to the television.

The Sheriff’s a hell of a nice guy for walking away to pour himself a cup of coffee, Lydia can attest.

“I’m going into the station in a few,” he shouts from the kitchen. “Guterra’s on call if there’s an emergency. My phone’s gonna stay in the patrol car during checkpoints. It’s Saturday night so the bars don’t close until 2am. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Stiles looks affronted. “We’re not going out, don’t worry! Saturday night movie marathon. No drinking. No driving.”

The volume is so low on the TV that the sound of his dad pouring himself a cup of coffee is level with the news anchor’s voice. “You’ve got a friend over and you didn’t think to change your pants? Who raised you, Stiles?”

He squeaks in embarrassment and Lydia bites her lip.

“You wear your uniform three days in a row!”

“And I raised a liar, too! It’s two in the afternoon!”

“Next time I’m brewing decaf!”

And then after a moment, “What’s this gazpacho looking thing next to the orange juice?”

Stiles scoffs petulantly, “It’s dip! Not soup!”

“Is it good?” He shouts with his mouth full of (probably) Belgian waffle.

Lydia is clearly amused by their bickering and does nothing to hide it. Stiles notices with an annoyance. He shakes his head and unhinges his jaw at her and her father. He leans all he way back on the couch to look at his dad through the archway.

“Now you’re just insulting me in front of company!”

“This coffee’s dark roast!” he complains.

“Lydia likes dark roast!”

Lydia raises an accusing eyebrow towards Stiles. “Oh, I do, do I?”

He returns with a, “YES,” his mouth impossibly wide.

***

After the first two indies, the sun starts to set, casting a glow that slips through the blinds next to the front door. Stiles and Lydia adjust themselves every so often, laying down, sitting up, holding hands, resting arms behind each other. There’s even a moment right in the middle of _Call Me By Your Name_ when Lydia wraps both hands around Stiles’ bicep and rests her head on his shoulder. He tensed up at her touch, and through every other sex scene, until it was over. Lydia was sure she heard a sniffle at the end.

But regardless, they behaved. Sadly. Even with the Sheriff gone she couldn’t get Stiles to make a move. No matter how hard she stared at the outline of his dick through his pants.

“We need snacks,” he declares, wrestling out of his pretzel style position on the couch.

“Pretzel sticks!”

“Of course.”

“Animal crackers.”

“Lydia, it’s like you don’t know me at all.”

“Oreos, too.”

“Oreos are a midnight snack, but I’ll allow it.”

Lydia stands up to stretch out her legs and crack her neck. Stiles comes back with ALL the snacks. They sit on the living room carpet floor and lounge around with the soft buzz of the TV turned low. He put it on a cartoon channel while they ate, letting the Tasmanian devil in charge of the party. Stiles rips into a bag of chips and chomps loudly, the sunset outside sparkling in and setting a cast over his upper chest and part of his cheek. Lydia shoves enough animal crackers in her mouth to keep her composure. They discuss cinematography and compare plots and recite what their favorite lines were from each film. It’s not until Stiles starts throwing animal crackers at her face twenty minutes in that his phone goes off. He looks at where he left it hours ago, untouched, on the dining room table. He looks back at Lydia. They share a look.

“Go ahead, don’t look at me.”

Stiles rolls his whole body forward comically before bouncing up like a frog to see who it is.

“It’s Scott,” he looks at Lydia over his shoulder.

“So answer,” she shrugs.

“I’m not going to lie to him.”

She straightens out enough to sit on her knees. She runs her fingers through her hair and closes her eyes at the feeling of her nails scratching her scalp just right. She makes sure to stretch out her lower back and lean her head far enough to paint the perfect picture. Her eyelashes flutter open when she relaxes.

“Then don’t.”

Stiles blinks. “Um.”

Lydia thinks this is it. She deserves a kiss now.

He brings the phone up to answer, turning his back to her. Leaning one hand flat on the dining room table, he hangs his head. “Hey, Scott.”

Scott is yelling but she can’t hear what it’s about.

“Don’t think so, buddy.” There’s a pause, and then she can actually hear Scott shout ‘WHAT’ over the other line.

“No, no I know. Yeah. That’s really cool – I’ll pass. Yeah, no. I get it. I’m not going.”

Lydia gets up silently, watching as Stiles tries to frantically tell his best friend that he’s not going out tonight. Stalking over to him as quickly and quietly as possible, she decides how exactly she’s going to stake her claim. Lydia has been very patient but if she sees a opportunity to take advantage of him, she’s going to take it. Stiles was in an emotionally helpless position right now and that Lax Bro Cross Country Ass was calling to her.

“Well, uh. I’m on a date. I’m on a date with w- _whaaaaaha ha_ …” A full body shiver runs through Stiles as Lydia snakes her hands up under his white Henley, massaging the dimples on his lower back and playing with the waistband of his long johns. She finds her betrayal in a set of skintight boxer briefs and bites her lip. She skims the goosebumps breaking out atop his skin and dips her fingers into the elastic and pulls. His body jerks at the sudden movement.

He looks over his shoulder at her, eyes wide, like he’s soaked in kerosene and Lydia’s holding a match stick. Scott’s still yelling over some background music, clearly wanting to know more. Stiles can barely hold the phone up.

“I’m on a date with Lydia, actually,” he says on a very slow exhale, neck craning in disbelief at said date. He looks down to gauge what she’s doing and then locks eyes with her. Scott starts freaking out.

Lydia’s face feels hot but she can’t stop touching him, her deviance fueling her. Stiles is so _warm_. She scratches at his hips, giving them much deserved attention; long, languid scratches back to front, before wrapping her arms around his middle. His shirt is bundled up around his waist but the fabric hangs loose enough to cover most of Lydia’s arms. She presses her front to his back, nearly closing the gap between their mouths if not for the height difference.

Stiles grips the phone too tight and tries to breathe. “I’m on a date with Lydia,” he repeats clearly. His chest rises and falls heavily. “We’re on a date. She’s over my house right now. She’s been over my house many times. But this time it’s a date,” his voice slurs, Lydia pulling his mind this way and that. “Um, yeah. I’m not going out.”

Lydia finally gets to scratch the hair on his stomach, caressing his happy trail. Stiles’ bulge in his pants is difficult to look at from this angle. She can barely get her chin over his shoulder, but it looks oh so inviting. Lydia’s dying to flatten her hand against his skin and snake her hand down the front of him. She needs to feel his penis in her hands, any way she can get it.

But then… Scott starts yelping.

“I’m, I’m not- I told you.” Stiles is trying to sound unaffected. He’s really, _really_ trying. But Lydia presses her palms against his bare chest and starts dragging her nails down his sternum. “It’s very, _AHhhhhHhhhhhhh_ …” he finishes in a deep groan. Stiles voice keeps yo-yoing between an ‘inside’ voice and a ‘bedroom’ one.

Lydia bites what she can of his shoulder, and her hands change course. They begin to make their way south, her own personally branded downward slope into true madness. She grips and rubs her fingers over every muscle on her way down.

“Oh, fuck me,” punches out of him low and sexy, before snapping back at Scott with a whine. “You’re not listening! It’s possible, dude, it’s happening!”

The yelping on the other line sounds a lot like ‘EXPLAIN TO ME HOW THAT’S POSSIBLE’ and ‘ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME’ but Scott’s laughing. Lydia doesn’t let him hear much of it though. Stiles’ head lulls back in pleasure, back bowing, eyelids closing, as Lydia starts rubbing at his cock through his pants. God, the thrill of finally having her hands on him is giving her a secondhand high. Lydia sniffs along his collar bone and up his neck. His eyebrows come together like he’s in pain, grunting like he’s never discovered the use of his body before, and he looks so beautiful. He shakes in front of her as if he’s on the brink of riding a colossal wave. She only feels a little guilty…

 _He was hard anyway,_ she rationalizes. She nudges her nose along the back of his ear, one of his sweet spots.

“Oh, fuck off, McCall,” Stiles hiccups. His knees buckle and his resolve starts crumbling until it leaves him a blubbering, shameless mess. Lydia gives his dick one final squeeze, making him tent his pants impressively. She rubs him in the space between two fingers to assess if his hardness is at its hilt. Scott is still laughing and Stiles nearly starts crying.

It’s funny how fearless and confident Stiles gets once he submits to what his body wants. Lydia has half-assed plans on writing her college acceptance essay about it.

“We’ve made out, Scott. Thoroughly. In my bed. She gave me the hickeys.” Scott stops laughing. Stiles pushes his groin up against her hand for more friction and his free hand envelops the one around his waist. Lydia licks in the hollow behind his ear before latching onto his ear lobe. “And she’s about to give me another one.”

Scott really loses it, tries hard to fight for Stiles’ attention, but the line inevitably goes dead. Stiles ends the call. Lydia’s body is thrumming with want and all the grunting coming out of his mouth is making her soak her panties. She feels like she’s going cross-eyed. It takes Stiles less than a second to toss his phone on the dining table and turn around in Lydia’s arms.

Stiles’ big hands come up to take ahold of her but it’s his lips that reach out and catch her first, knocking her head back as he pushes their bodies forward. It’s wonton, it’s slippery, it’s everything she needs. He reacts so fast it gives her sexual whiplash.

She thought giving into her urges would level her horniness, or want – or whatever it was – down to something she could recognize. But nothing compares to having Stiles’ hands on her. Every touch and grope does the opposite of stopping the fire. It only makes it spread. There was now a raised peak of satisfaction that was so high out of Lydia’s reach, she didn’t know how she expected to survive it.

His phone goes off again. Scott continues to try and call back but Stiles is having none of it. They get lost in their kissing, hands roaming, lips crashing, and she can’t stop thinking about his erection. Was it as hard as it could get? The picture of a judicial gavel comes to Lydia’s pervy mind and the laugh she lets out separates them. The sound only riles Stiles up even more, smiling down at her charmingly, before hitting the brakes on their pace just a fraction long enough for him to lean in again.

He begins licking a slow descend back into her mouth, starting with prodding her lips open. The use of his wet open mouth is actually becoming a hazard because the light pressure he’s using is way too perfect. Way too advanced for Lydia’s liking. She wishes she wasn’t amazed by it but she is; she thinks she may be more impressed than she is jealous. Wow, that’s a first.

His tongue massages hers with a reverence much slower than before. It feels like an exploration, like a taking back of something… like he’s reclaiming her.

Lydia’s leg comes up to wrap around his hip area is an attempt to be lifted up off the ground. Stiles gets the hint real quick when she rubs up against his cock. A guttural moan escapes the back of his throat. Stiles wastes no time. He splays is fingers out in a bruising grip over her ass and squeezes until Lydia starts gripping his neck for something to hold onto. In a move so smooth, so _not_ expectant of stiles, so unlike any regular teenage boy (but very much like the best friend of a teenage werewolf), he grabs the back of Lydia’s thighs and hoists her up without a hitch. Her legs tighten like a vice around his waist. In a complete show of strength, he adjusts one arm around her middle and the other on the back of her head. Without separating their mouths. The burning in her thighs is necessary but short lived once Stiles thrusts Lydia up against the wall. She can take it. Stiles knows that Lydia takes spin classes. He’s not dumb.

He uses the wall for leverage and pistons his hips between her legs in a rocking motion that sets off a litany of curses. Lydia cries out when rocks into her through their clothes so forcefully, she can feel the mushroom head of his cock nudge right up against her clit.

“Oh my fuck,” she pants into his mouth, sweat forming at her temples.

The hand cradling her head comes around to grab her by the jaw. Her face is held between his thumb and pointer finger. A gentle push knocks her head back into the wall. “Your hair looks so pretty like this,” he confesses. He’s speaking in a sultry voice, akin to the one she heard last night.

She closes her eyes at the intensity of his stare. Stiles is praising her right here, right now. With her body in his total grasp. The blood is rushing to her face and there’s no means of escape. “I love it when your hair looks messy. Or in your face. I like it falling over my hands when I grab you like this. I could touch myself to the idea of running my fingers through your hair.” He drags his nose up her cheek. “You still smell so fucking good. Fuck. I could stick my dick in you just like this, standing up.”

His words wash over her like scalding hot water being poured down her spine and she whimpers.

“You’re so pretty.”

She scrapes his scalp with her nails and kisses him, making him pause to bask in the orgasmic feeling of his head being scratched. He keeps repeating the word ‘pretty’ over and over again with his eyes closed. She bites on his earlobe and tugs on it. He starts rocking into her slowly, their bodies making thumping sounds together into the wall.

Stiles had a huge fucking cock this whole time, and she humorously wondered if the guys on the lacrosse team felt insecure.

Her back hit the wall repeatedly and it really was just rhythmic debauchery at its best. The idea of what they looked like to an onlooker from this angle made her tighten her grip on him. She sucks on his bottom lip. In the background, heard through the rush of blood in her years, his phone was _still_ going off.

“Stiles,” she whispers between kisses. He groans when she pulls back and he slides the hand under her jawline down to her breast. He gives it a firm squeeze.

“God, you make me crazy.” His eyes are hooded, and his lips are swollen. He rests his head against hers and takes a deep breath. He idly starts rubbing her nipple through her shirt. “Why’d you have to tease me, huh? Do you like making me hard?”

She doesn’t blink but her jaw drops. “Yes,” she whispers, tugging at his hair. Combined with what his finger was doing and what their hips were doing, she could come from this easy.

He grunts at Lydia’s yank. He licks into her mouth one final time before kissing her neck tenderly, and pulling away. “I know you do, I know,” he praises. He leans in real close and puts his lips to her ear. “But we still have the _whole_ night. And this date’s not over yet.”

She suddenly fears he’s going to stop. And that can’t happen. “I want you to touch me, Stiles. I want you to touch me,” she begs. She’ll lay it on thick if she has to but she’s not letting up.

“Shit, Lyds, don’t say it like that- don’t do this to me.”

“Please touch me, Stiles. Show me how much you want me,” she coos, going for broke. Lydia figured that those words resided deep down into some fantasy of his. Turns out she was right. Because Stiles had dreamed of her saying those words to him many, many times. In many different positions.

“I’m so close to drilling a hole through this wall,” he warns. Lydia leans in for another kiss but Stiles pulls away like he’s trying to protect himself. “And that would be tragic.”

“Stiles, don’t you dare put me back down.”

He rubs her nipple taut enough to pull on it just right and she cries out. He just about gloats at her reaction. “Why?”

“You know I can just distract you again.”

“That’s for sure,” he huffs in amusement, letting go of Lydia’s nipple. His hands go back to her thighs and he tosses her up to readjust them both. Now she’s looking down at him and her legs are less parted than before. “But I’m going to ask you not to.”

What. Is. Happening.

“What!?” Lydia could scream in sexual frustration. She’s so dazed and confused. Thinking quick, she remembers that her whole body is still mostly supported by the wall. Stiles’ hot grip on the back of her thighs gives her the idea of lifting her skirt. All she’s got to do is let him see her wet panties. The visual alone should be a sure fire way to bend Stiles to her will.

“Don’t I look good in this skirt, Stiles?” She takes the hands she has resting on Stiles’ shoulders and brushes them down her body. She really tries her best to arch her back given the circumstances. Stiles is already frozen.

Her voice drips with seduction when she says, again, “Do you think I look good in this, Stiles?” The perfect timber of her voice catches Stiles attention and makes him tighten the grasp he has on her legs. He can’t help staring at the way she’s touching her body. Lydia takes advantage of the moment, and grips on the hem of her white pleated skirt and slides it up. But she only gets to the crease of her crotch and thigh before he drops her down on her two feet. Her jaw drops in disbelief.

“Stiles!”

He laughs darkly. “You are a terrorist!”

“Put your hands back up my skirt or so help me God.”

Stiles puts his hands on his knees. “Lydia. Please.” He closes his eyes from the temptation and openly prays to God for strength.

“Put your big ass hands back on my body,” she threatens.

“No.” He puts his hands on his hips, in true brat fashion. His hair is tousled and pointing in every which way, his shirt is still misshapen on his lithe torso, and the Dermacol’s rubbed off on parts of his neck. Lydia looks at her arms and sees the smallest patches of it that’ve transferred.

“Ugh,” she complains. All this and no dick. Unfathomable!

“Don’t start with me.”

This asshole just put her down before she could show him her black lace underwear! There were bows! And sheer bits! The worst buzzkill of all time for Lydia is a wasted seduction technique. This was _heresy._

“Remember the deal we made,” he reminds her, when he sees how pissed off she’s getting. “This is my day for us. Mine. I get to decide how it goes. We agreed.”

Lydia’s going to die without an orgasm.

“Let me show you what I planned for us, Lyds.” He grabs her hand and intertwines their fingers. The way he looks at her with his eyebrows raised and a blush on his cheeks was just unbearable. She could not say no to this boy. She wants to wreck him too badly to deny him.

Stiles doesn’t hesitate to tug on her hand. He makes Lydia follow him out through the front of the house and back around towards the stairs.

“ _Now_ where are we going?”

“My room.”

_Finally._

“To watch Kill Bill: Volume Two.”

_Fucking hell._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Italian btw, sorry for the cinema flex


End file.
